My Brave Little Hufflepuff
by Anrheithwyr
Summary: Blood red: that was the colour of her hair as it spread over the floor, covering the cobblestone as she lay motionless. Too still to be alive, too calm to be breathing. Your breath hitches as you stare down at her red, red hair, and all you can think about is how glad you are it isn't you who is dead. Susan Bones lays spilled over the steps, and all you can do is stare at her


_**Written for the 'Summer 2013 Wizarding Modly Forum Competition of Awesomeness' (Charms Challenge, Option B, House Hufflepuff, Wand Currently Being Withheld) Please, mods, I'd like to receive my full score. I used the '5 bonus points clause', as well. **_

_**Also written for the 'If You Dare Challenge' by Slytherin Cat, using prompt # 278, churning stomach. **_

_**Also written for the 'HP Potions Competition' by Black Boxed, using **__**Antidote to Uncommon Poisons – Write about someone who is being healed emotionally. **_

….

Blood red: that was the colour of her hair as it spread over the floor, covering the cobblestone as she lay motionless. Too still to be alive, too calm to be breathing. Your breath hitches as you stare down at her _red, red _hair, and all you can think about is how glad you are it isn't you who is dead. Susan Bones lays spilled over the steps, and all you can do is stare at her lifeless body, wondering when they word had gotten so cruel. When had it become common place for little girls to die alone on the steps, quietly falling into a permanent sleep? You can feel your churning stomach as you back away from her lifeless body. Susan is gone now, and you can't do anything about it except hold in the contents of your stomach and walk away. There is no help for the dead.

Around you is only death and dying, as children and old men fall. You've got your wand in your hand and a harsh smile on your face as you march down the hallway, watching robes fly and voices screech. It is the smile of someone who is not all right anymore, the smile of someone who is falling apart, and trying to keep it together. Mothers are crying out for their sons and daughters, and on you march, occasionally firing curses at anyone who dares get to close. You're mad, mad, _mad_ with grief, and you don't want anyone near you. Men in dark cloaks approach, but you only smile cruelly, disappearing farther into the bowels of the school, knowing they will not follow you. Whispers of names, fallen warriors, echo back at you as you climb one staircase, then another, but you still do not fight. There is no reason for you to draw your wand, they do not need you yet.

Someone ahead cries out in pain, but you do not hurry. There is no reason to hurry, you have nowhere to be. The voice cries out again, louder, and you say 'Wait.' You call out 'I'm coming, wait.', and they fall silent, listening for your approaching footsteps. It's a third year, or at least a very young student, one you don't recognise, an unfamiliar a young boy. He is bloody from head to toe, scratches obvious on his neck. He can't be more than fourteen, yet here he sits, wand clutched in shaky hands. He lets out a whimper in your presence, but again falls silent. There is a hole in his chest, the size of a sickle, blood trickling freely, as well as from his forehead.

"Please." He begs you, and you know it's not just for safety. It's for a hand to hold and a comforting voice and for someone to be there, in case he doesn't make it. _When _he doesn't make it, because this fourteen year old boy seems to know he's not walking away alive. He doesn't care, just looks up at you with pleading brown eyes and says, "Please." So you sit down with him, not sure what else there is to do. You hold his hand and whisper to him and when he cries out, you reassure him. You tell him that he's a strong boy and a brave boy, and you ask him his name.

"Derek," he tells you in a quiet voice that is getting softer all the time. "Derek Lowe." He tells you about his little sister Natalie, and he tells you he's sixteen, older than he looks. He tells you that he is in love with a girl, and that he hates Potions, and he just chatters to you, until his eyes grow dim and his voice goes raspy. Eventually, he falls silent, and you do not leave, because he still breathes shallowly next you, a wisp of a boy. His eyes close soon after, and you get up, kissing his cheek, continuing your journey. He is a dead boy, as dead as Susan, and now he's just another body in a dark hallway, for someone to find. But you do nothing-that is not your division.

….

Emerald green: That's the colour of the spell that ends it all. A quick _Avada Kedavra_, and suddenly, everyone you know is dead. Your mum and your little sisters and your best friend. They're all gone with a quick flash, and you walk away unharmed. Your blood is tainted, they say, but still, you are allowed to go. The dark hooded men smirk at you and taunt you, but you walk away free, because you are tainted, but not as tainted as they are. Your blood is not pure, but your mother's blood is dark with mud. Or, so they tell you, opening the door and telling you to leave before they burn the house down. A mercy, the dark hoods call it, a mercy that they do not kill you there.

You wander the city alone, living on the streets that summer, glad it is rainy, because no one can see you cry. Your churning stomach leads you to alleyways, throwing up over and over, until there is nothing left, and you keep walking. Your jacket grows faded and dirty, and your hair grows long and messy; you sleep on doorsteps and under trees, wherever and whenever you can. You can't go back to school, where Muggleborns and half-bloods are being chased down and hunted, so you let the water fill your boots, you let your ribs show. Winter is the worst, when no one wants to go outside, and there is no number of shirts you could ever wear to keep you warm. The shops close, and there is no one to pinch from. Where you were once merely grubby has now turned into living filth; people turn away from you, disgusted.

Newspapers are your only remaining connection with the Wizarding world, besides your wand. You hang around magical communities, or the Leaky Cauldron, sneaking _The Prophet _from tables, eagerly reading about the war, about the Ministry. You learn of Potter's break-in at the Ministry, you learn of Umbridge's quick promotions up the ladder, you learn that people are dying and _no one cares. _The Aurors are being held back, fired or murdered if they attempt to do anything. The Wizarding world is in chaos, and you are just one young teen, one hungry, dirty teen. Tom, the bartender at the Leaky lets you sleep in the cupboard, and you pay him back by working all day, taking your showers in the rain, or from buckets of dishwater, never quite clean. You listen constantly to Tom's radio, hanging on to every word. Tom becomes your caretaker, a parental figure you are so desperately requiring. Suddenly, you cannot imagine life without this man, who has saved you from a short life on the streets.

On May 1st, you get your big break, when Nigel Wolpert begins screaming "Lightning has struck, I repeat, lightning has struck!" over the radio, calling all able-bodied wizards and witches to come help. One look at Tom, and you know there is nowhere else you can go; he understands, sending you off with a knife and a threat to _come back alive_. Tom sees you off with a furrowed brow, and you wonder what you'll be walking into. He seems to know something you don't about Hogwarts, but you are young and he is too old to fight. You _have _to go, there is just no other option at this point, because you've got no family except Tom, and you're prepared to die for him.

The school is in chaos when you arrive, fires and explosions all around you, screams echoing through the grounds, as the world turns upside down. Spells rain down on all sides, people fall, and the universe shifts, trying to recover from the pain of death. You understand why Tom cries as he sends you off, because Hogwarts is a graveyard now, and all around you are the dead and dying. On you march, wand in one hand, your knife if the other. You're unsteady and scared, but a brave smile is all that is on your pale, pale face. They will not get you, not tonight, the teen with the dirty blood.

….

Sky blue: How is it possible for the sky to be so bright, despite the pain you are still suffering? How is it possible that families are burying their children, yet the sun is so dazzling? It should be raining, the angels should be crying for the deaths of the innocent; the angels, however, do not care for the innocent. You walk from grave to grave, looking at the names carved into fresh stone, and you realise that the angels do not care who lives or dies. They sit high on their lofty clouds, far from the sufferings of people, not caring about those still left in the wake.

You tell Tom you aren't ready to come back, that they need you at Hogwarts. It's true, they need everyone they can to fix the school as soon as possible, but you're also hiding from him. Tom can read you so well, his wise old eyes always taking in your every emotion. If you went back to him, he would know how much you're hurting, and that would hurt him. So you stay at the school longer than they need, and you help more than you thought you could. Walls redone, painting restored, tapestries restitched. Everywhere you look, you see the imperfect attempts at meshing _brand new _with _centuries old_. You fix the school, but you do not fix your crooked heart.

You meet many other people, interesting people. Charlie Weasley, who is quiet but strong. Oliver Woods, who is loud and constantly telling people he knows what to do. A girl named Tabitha Long, who never speaks, only hands over the tools they need. You work alongside these people day and night, reconstructing your beloved castle, knowing you won't be coming back in September. Hogwarts was your school, but it is too different from how you remember; you would never be able to step foot in here again as a student. The others, they look at you funny, but you only smile.

Pretending you are okay is far too easy a task. All that is required is smiling and saying "I'm fine." whenever someone asks you what is wrong. You laugh with Oliver, you pull pranks on Charlie, and you tell Tabitha that she is _too sweet_, but inside, you are breaking, breaking, _breaking. _The others, they can tell, and you know they can tell, but it's easier to just pretend. Admitting something is wrong means having to talk about it, and the war is too fresh in everyone's mind to speak. Instead, you just focus on rebuilding and repairing, your hands keeping your mind numb from the horrors.

Eventually, there is nothing left to do, and you are sent home. There is nowhere else to for you got go but back to Tom. So you run back to him, running into his arms, and finally, after three months, you break down in his arms. You wish there was some sort of Cheering charm he could use on you, but no amount of magic is ever going to heal your broken heart, and you cling to him, your body shaking as you cry into his shoulders. He comforts you as you comforted Derek in the dark hallway; Tom puts you to bed in one of the rooms upstairs, where you sleep for hours, dreaming of dark corridors, and mazes leading only to dead ends and screaming faces.

Your magic grows weak as you lose the will to live, finding it harder and harder to wake up every morning. Wouldn't it just be easier to sleep forever, instead of waking up to fresh pain each day? All you want to do is cry until you are just an empty shell of a person, but Tom will not let you. He feeds you and bathes you and tells you that there _are _reasons to live. (After all, don't you love him? Hadn't you promised to survive?) He keeps you alive, even though you want nothing but to die. Your wand lies unused on your dresser, and you forget that you have magic. The spells you had learned at school slowly leave your head as all you can focus on is the pain of today. It's like becoming a scared first year again, unsure of what you are doing.

….

Blushing pink: You react to Tom's words as he encourages you, and the trickle of water collapses, splashing to the floor. You sigh, watching the stone sparkle with wet, feeling your head pound with the effort of even this simple spell. Your muscles hurt, your head is vibrating, but one look at Tom makes everything seem a little better; Tom is the father you never knew, the grandfather you never met. He chuckles as your failed attempt, which makes your ears go pink again, but he isn't mocking you, that much is obvious.

"Want to try again?" he asks, nodding at the water. His old face breaks into a grin as you shrug, and you are reminded of a walnut, with his bald head. You've told him that before, and it only makes him laugh; Tom seems to always be looking for reasons to laugh. "Go on, then, try again. I'm sure you'll get it this time." You shrug once more, not nearly as confident as he is in your magical talents, or the scraps of what is left. But he looks so determined for you, so certain you will succeed, and you don't want to disappoint him. You raise your wand.

"Aguamenti." You say, just a little louder than before, but you've got Tom's determination and confidence running through your veins, and it's not just a trickle, but a stream, filling up the vase. Tom cheers wildly, yelling excitedly that he just _knew _you could do it. You fill up the vase to the very brim, and grin, as several customers on the floor stare wildly in their direction, wondering what is going on. You don't care, you're too euphoric from your success to care what anyone thinks. _Your magic might be back_, after three months unable to do a thing. Suddenly, you're no longer the uselessly scared child you have been.

"So, my little apprentice, let's try Alohomora, shall we?" Tom asks, going over to lock the door. You frown, more than a little startled. You had hoped that by proving you could do Aguamenti, Tom would give you a break. But he wants you to succeed, he wants you to be able to go past your limit, even if your head is pounding harder than before. "Do it, I know you can. Look at what you just did! Come on, Alohomora, yeah?" Maybe you can do this. Maybe you're smarter and stronger than you ever gave yourself credit for, because the weak little child that you've been these past months appears to be gone now. You're a Hufflepuff, and Hufflepuffs don't give up, and they don't give in.

"Alohomora," you say, pointing your wand at the door, but nothing happens. There is no click of unlocking gears, no sign of the door creaking open. It remains firmly locked, and you frown; the scared child is coming back, bringing with it Susan's blood red hair, and Derek's cold lips. Mum and your sisters, dead on the floor, as men push you away. Suddenly, you're nothing more than a huddled figure on a cold street. You are nothing, you are weak. Why had you ever thought you were good at magic? A half-blood like you could never do anything.

"Don't give up," Tom whispers in your ear, seeing the darkness creeping in. "Don't give up, don't give in. You are stronger than the thoughts in your head, you are braver than that. Don't sleep now, you've still got magic to do. You've still got a life to live; remember, you promised me." You shake your head, because it hurts, and he _must _be wrong; there is no way you are strong enough or brave enough. You're just a scared Hufflepuff. What can you do, besides cry? Tom grabs your shoulders, whispering to you like you whispered to Derek; but this is not staying beside a dying boy, this is encouraging someone to live again. "Go on and do it. Be strong, my Hufflepuff."

"Alohomora."

….

Sunrise yellow: The future is brighter than you had thought it could ever be. You are so much better now than you had thought, so much healthier. The scars on your heart are healing with age, even as new ones are forming. Tom…dead at eighty-seven, has left the Leaky Cauldron in the care of his great-niece, a sweet-faced girl named Hannah, who had always been one year above you at school, also a Hufflepuff. You tell her there is nowhere else to go, and she explains that she couldn't imagine you ever leaving. You are a part of this place now, a familiar face to the hundreds who trek through every year. You have a life now, you have the will to live. Your nightmares are not gone, they never will be, but you are no longer afraid. Pain and loss no longer scares you.

You are a brave Hufflepuff, and you are a scared Hufflepuff. You are a child hiding from the shadows, and you are an adventurer, determined to see tomorrow's sunrise shine through your windows. The smile on your face is not one you have plastered on in an effort to convince those around you that you are happy. It is a true smile of one who has found the will to live, and can't imagine death as something so terrifying. Every day, you are reminded of what happened at Hogwarts, an echo that will never dissipate. How could you forget, when you look in the mirror and see the marks that war has had on you? The scar that leads all the way down your face is a constant reminder to you and everyone else that you almost died; but, how else can you live, other than with the knowledge that you helped change the world?

_The knife misses, and his spell cuts deep into your face, leaving a trail of blood that seeps through your fingers. You howl in pain, a wild, animalistic pain, but he's already on his feet, running. You can't follow, too focused on keep the blood inside of you, even as it spills from your cheek faster than you thought possible. You're not sure which way is up anymore, as the smell of blood hits your nose, and you spin wildly. Someone calls out your name, and you try to turn, seeing feet running. As everything goes black, you smile, ready to die. You are ready, because at least it isn't hurting anymore. _

Hannah smiles at you from her spot by the register, as you move slowly from table to table; somewhere deeper into Diagon Alley, her husband is walking their eldest daughter through the streets as they buy her first wand. You are nearly forty now, separated from that day by twenty-three long years. It seems but a vague memory some days, yet crystal clear at other moments. You sigh as your hands go through the motion of wiping down tables and collecting dishes. Hannah seems blissful in her life, with a happy home and a happy family. She's content with what she has, she's moved on completely, her life appearing to be untroubled by what has happened to her. You've a family of your own, with a little boy and girl waiting for you when you arrive, but even they cannot seem to keep away the darkness. Even when you go home to them, it does not make the scars on your heart and face go away.

It overflows into your mind, the memories of blood and cold lips and dead children. Suddenly, your smile has become fake, a painted emotion on a shattered doll. You gasp, running for the bathroom, as tears overflow. _Depression. _That's what your Muggle doctor calls it. _Survivor's guilt_. Twenty-three years past, and you still can't make it a whole day without cracking. Hannah is at the door, knocking wildly, begging you to open up, but you gag, and your churning stomach leads you to the toilet. You can't help it, throwing up and crying and begging for it to all stop. You are a brave little Hufflepuff, and you are a scared little child.

_My brave little Hufflepuff, why are you crying? _


End file.
